


Teachers of the Heart (A timestamp for The Doors of Time)

by felisblanco



Series: The Doors of Time [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-24
Updated: 2009-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felisblanco/pseuds/felisblanco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A timestamp for <a href="http://felisblanco.livejournal.com/856417.html">The Doors of Time</a> set three years after part 1 and seven years before part two. Jensen's first day at Juilliard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teachers of the Heart (A timestamp for The Doors of Time)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song [Teachers](http://www.sendspace.com/file/qzajbo) by Leonard Cohen. I realise the embedded music is way too long and close together to be properly played as you read but just.. pause or something. The reading or the listening, whichever works for you.

Ten seconds after Jensen’s alarm goes off on his first morning at Juilliard, his phone buzzes with a message from Chris that says, _‘Call me as soon as you wake up. That better be within 5 min!’_

Jensen groans, head falling back on the pillow. By his side Minna is purring as she curls up into an even tighter ball, clearly not ready to get up yet. Jensen scratches her behind the ears with one hand while blindly fumbling with the buttons on his phone with the other, too tired to keep his eyes open.

“Okay,” he sighs as Chris picks up, “what’s going on?”

“Have you looked outside?”

Jensen struggles to sit up in the bed and glances out the window. Oh. Fuck.

“Pretty sure it’s not supposed to snow for at least a couple of months,” Chris says casually but Jensen can smell his worry through the phone, like wet grass and Earl Grey tea.

“Funny,” Jensen mutters, waiting until the drifting snowflakes start to melt away before he lets himself fall back on the bed, closing his eyes. His head hurts.

“So what gives?” Chris asks, his voice turning serious. “You feeling ok? Want me to come over?”

Jensen sighs. “It’s nothing. Just… trouble sleeping.” He cracks one eye open, letting his gaze slide over the room. The walls, pale yellow and blank. The desk, immaculately clean. The bed, too big for one man and an imaginary cat. He shudders, squeezing his eyes closed again.

“Trouble sleeping as in nightmares or as in not actually sleeping?” Chris asks concerned.

“Little bit of both,” Jensen admits. He rubs his eyes with his fingers, willing the headache away. It goes, reluctantly, leaving behind a numbness that’s not much better. “It’s just very naked,” he adds quietly.

“Uh… What?”

Jensen mentally rolls his eyes, easily imagining the look on Chris’s face. “The room. The room is naked. Like… you know. _There._ Even the walls are the same color.”

“Oh. Aw shit.” Chris groans. “Dude, that won’t do. Tell you what, we’ll decorate. Dress it up ‘til it’s all nice and pretty for you.”

Jensen can’t help smiling. “I think that is the gayest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up,” Chris says absentmindedly. He hums, thoughtful. “I should get off around five. I’ll bring over some pictures, maybe a couple of posters. And you can always change the colors, man. Just do your thing.”

Jensen frowns. “I don’t think I’m allowed. They have rules…”

“Pfft, screw the rules,” Chris dismisses. “You want me to talk to them? I’ll talk to them. No problem.”

“I don’t know.” Jensen sighs. “They already think I’m weird enough without adding ‘scared of yellow’ to the description.” He thinks for a moment. “Maybe I can just change it back in the mornings. If I can figure out the right music for ugly yellow.”

“Try Britney,” Chris scoffs. “That should do it, considering her music is piss.”

Jensen snorts. It’s odd how Chris’s grumpiness always manages to make him feel better. “Just a ball of sunshine this morning, are we?” he says, sitting up again and stretching the kinks out of his neck. He glances at the clock and grimaces. “Listen, Chris, I have to get up. We’ll talk after class, ok?”

“You’re still in bed?” Chris chides. “Well, get your lazy ass out of there, boy. Put on some clothes. And eat breakfast!”

Jensen fakes a dramatic sigh even if he’s sure Chris can feel him smiling. “Yes, _mom_.”

“Don’t forget: keys, phone, whatever the hell you need for class. You have the list, right? Always check the list!”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Yes! Shut up. I’m good, ok? Stop pestering me and go do something useful.”

Chris mutters something about ‘ungrateful bastard’ which only has Jensen grinning wider. “I’ll come by after five, ok?” Chris tells him impatiently. “Me and Steve. We’ll pimp your room.”

“You watch too much TV,” Jensen teases and hangs up before Chris has time to shoot anything back.

He’s ready to leave thirty minutes later, having showered, dressed, eaten breakfast and even remembered to fix his hair into something resembling presentable. The face that met him in the mirror was pale and tired but the green of his eyes shone bright with anticipation. He’d stared at himself for a while, daring the image to fade and feeling childishly exuberant when it didn’t.

Sometimes he has to pinch himself to be sure he’s actually awake, that he isn’t going to wake up in his room back home, or even worse, Inside. It’s been a year since he got out but sometimes it feels like he’s still in there. Especially right after he wakes up and he can’t for a moment remember where he is or how he got there. It scares the shit out of him which is why he hasn’t been able to sleep alone for even a single night. Until now. Now he has to.

His head is not all right, he knows that. He spaces out, sometimes for hours on end if no one is there to pull him back, and he keeps having flashbacks and what he can only describe as waking nightmares. When he knows he’s awake and where he is but everything around him starts to change; the walls closing in on him, the colors disappearing and the music fading away to be replaced with the monotonic white noise he’d gotten used to Inside. Even the slightest hint of that happening and he quickly shuts down, just in case. Chris has gotten good at keeping an eye on him, he always seems to know when he needs to rescue Jensen from the dark depths of his own head, but Chris is not here. Jensen is on his own now.

It’s what he always wanted, to be his own person and not dependant on anyone. Turns out it’s not nearly as liberating as he thought it would be. In fact it’s downright terrifying. Still, he took the first step, coming here. He just wishes he knew whether the path he’s following is leading him to a mentally better place or if at any moment he might step off a cliff and drop back into an even deeper abyss.

Jensen wakes up from his thoughts standing in front of a closed door. He blinks, a little disoriented, but a quick check shows that he’s in the right place even if he has no idea how he got there. Hesitantly he pushes the door open. And consequently hitches his breath in awe.

There’s a grand piano standing in the middle of the room. It’s black and so beautiful he feels dizzy. His old piano back home as well as the one Jared had and now the piano Chris got him, they’re all upright ones. He loves them all, like they are his siblings. But this... This is like the mother of all music, right there, waiting for him.

The first grand piano he touched was the one he played at the audition. When he walked on to the wide stage and saw it standing there, waiting for him, it was like walking into a church and seeing God in all his glory. In his nervousness for the audition Jensen hadn’t given any thought to what he would be playing _on_ , only worried about how he was going to play the music without turning the auditorium into a jungle or something worse.

Then, like now, he’d walked up to the instrument, awe in every step, and laid his hand on its enormous belly, feeling it hum under his palm. He can feel the anxiety of whoever played before him as well as the hundreds of students before that. All their hopes and dreams and fear of failure and shame. And it seems suddenly absurd that he’s here. That he, who’s never fit in anywhere, is about to experience something so many have before him. That he is going to become a part of this amazing instrument’s history.

“It’s a beauty, alright,” a voice says and Jensen snatches his hand away, quickly turning around. A man ¬– tall, thin, and with intelligent looking eyes – is watching him, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s a calmness about him, like old music sheets and candles, and Jensen breathes out, relaxing a little. “I take it you’re not used to grand pianos?”

Jensen shakes his head. He looks back at the piano, enthralled. “I didn’t know I’d get to...” He hesitates. “I can, right?”

The man laughs. “Son, they’re all we have. Grand pianos all the way. Nothing else worth playing if you ask me.”

If he weren’t feeling so overwhelmed Jensen would be insulted on behalf of his own piano at home. As it is he just nods, dazed.

“I’m Michael Richards by the way. And you are Jensen Ackles.” Richards tilts his head, studying him thoughtfully. “I’ve been looking forward to teaching you.”

Jensen blinks. “Oh,” he says, not sure how to respond to that.

“I was at your audition. Impressive. You made the whole auditorium come alive when you played.” Richards laughs. “I swear, I thought I smelled the ocean during Beethoven’s 8th.”

Jensen drops his eyes, mortified. Damn.

“Ah now,” Richards chuckles, misreading him, “no acting coy. You know you’re good. Still doesn’t mean you can’t improve. That’s what you’re here for.” He waves his hand at the piano bench. “Come on, have a seat.”

Jensen hesitates only a moment then walks around the piano slowly, running his fingers lightly over the shiny surface as he goes by. “I’ll get to play her everyday?” he asks hopeful.

If Richards is surprised by the pronoun he doesn’t show it. “Her or the pianos on your dorm floor. Both grand pianos.” He grins at Jensen’s stunned expression. “You didn’t know?”

“I only moved in last night,” Jensen says dazed as he sits down. This is actually his life now? It seems way too good to be true. He pinches his arm but everything stays the same. Solid. Real. Amazing. “Haven’t had time to look around much yet,” he adds absentmindedly as he gives the keys a light stroke with his fingers. They’re smooth and silken under his fingertips, polished by hundreds of hands over time gone by. So _amazing_.

“Well, you’re in for quite a few nice surprises then,” he hears Richards say, voice low and far away.

Jensen nods, more to himself than anything else. Minna jumps up on his lap before gracefully tiptoeing up to peak under the slightly raised lid to look into the piano’s vast frame, clearly intrigued. “I know,” Jensen whispers with a smile. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Minna throws him a bored look then settles down on his lap and starts licking her hind leg, all interest lost. Jensen chuckles, giving her a quick scratch behind the ears before going back to stroking the keys. He wants to open the piano up wide and touch the strings with his fingertips. Wants to watch the hammers hit the wires, from the thickest bass to the slimmest treble, and feel the wide range of vibrations run up his arm and tickle his brain. Wants to try and understand how some wood and wire can create the most beautiful music in the world.

It takes Jensen a while to notice how quiet the room has fallen. He looks up, embarrassed, thinking maybe he zoned out without noticing. He finds Richards watching him, eyes serious and concerned.

“You know, as your primary teacher I got to read your file,” he says quietly.

Jensen goes absolutely still. He pulls his hands slowly back and lowers them to his empty lap where they curl into tight fists. “Oh?” he says, aiming for casual but sounding small and scared.

“I don’t think we’ve ever had a self-taught student here. And with your special circumstances...” Richards pauses then asks, “You really didn’t play at all for two years?”

Jensen keeps his eyes on the row of keys in front of him. A drop of sweat slips down his neck and rolls along the cobblestone path of his spine. “Two years, three months and six days,” he says. His hands twitch in his lap.

Richards clears his throat. “Sounds more like punishment than treatment,” he says in a careful voice.

Jensen laughs shakily. “Felt like punishment,” he agrees, even if he knows it wasn’t.

Richards’ reflection nods in the shiny surface of the piano’s panel. “And before that you had only played for how long?” he asks.

“Two years eight months...” Jensen has to pause and think. “And three days,” he finishes.

Richards laughs a little, like he doesn’t quite know what to make of that. “Well, let’s hear if those five months make a difference. Play me something. Anything you want. Just to get the feel for her.”

Jensen nods and closes his eyes. This is it. For months he’s been practicing this, how to play music and only music, nothing else. Every session leaves him exhausted but it’s getting easier. And it’s all for this.

First he takes away the scent. Then the taste, the temperature and at last the images. Stripping the music bare of everything dangerous and imprisoning those parts within the borders of his own skin where he can feel them rushing through his veins in search for a way out. Everything but the emotions, those he can’t extract yet but he’s working on it.

Jensen breathes in. He breathes out. And then he plays.

  
[Schubert: Leise Flehen Meine Lieder From Schwanengesang, D 957 (Trans. Liszt) / Peter Nagy](http://www.besserwiss.com/felisblanco/07%20Schubert_%20Leise%20Flehen%20Meine%20Lieder%20From%20Schwanengesang%2c%20D%20957%20\(Trans.%20Liszt\).m4a)

This time he’s prepared for the magnified sound of the grand piano compared to the upright one. Something he hadn’t figured into his calculations at the audition. If a little scent of the ocean was all he’d revealed then he’d been lucky.

He chooses a piece by Schubert because it starts slow and quiet, giving him time to quell any magic that might want to come out to play as well. He doesn’t have to. Everything works as it should, there’s just music. Music so sweet and beautiful he gets tears in his eyes. Music grabbing him by the heart and twisting his insides. Music that makes him want to shout out with glee and fall down to his knees and cry his heart out. Music, music, music swallowing him whole.

When the last note dies out he slumps, drenched in sweat and shaking. He can see Richards’ reflection in the glossy surface of the piano, distorted and shimmering. They stay silent for a long time. Finally Richards walks up behind Jensen and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Good,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse. “Very good. Very... different. Still, there’s always room for improvement.” He takes a deep breath then pulls away, almost reluctantly. “Your playing is very fluent, almost liquid. Not much regard for timing and technique though. We’ll work on that.” He pauses. “You all right to go again?”

Jensen nods. His head is swimming and he sits with his eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing while Richards looks through his folders. Finally he walks over, spreading sheets on the built-in stand above the keyboard.

“Ever played this?” he asks and Jensen struggles to focus. He skims the notes quickly then shakes his head. “Good. Let’s hear it then.”

Jensen nods, still not trusting himself to speak, and takes a few moments walking himself through the same process again. Then he focuses intently on the notes written on the pages in front of him. He hardly ever plays like this, right of the sheets. He’d rather play by ear or from memory of notes he’s already read through. At least that way he’ll know what to expect instead of just wading out into muddy waters with no shoes on and zero swimming skills.

  
[Leifs: Torrek, Intermezzo, Op. 1/2 / Orn Magnusson](http://www.besserwiss.com/felisblanco/02%20Leifs_%20Torrek%2c%20Intermezzo%2c%20Op.%201_2.m4a)

As it is the fear catches him completely off guard. He can see yellow walls within his mind, feel the crisp white linens under his cheek and smell the disinfectant in the air. Can hear the muffled sound of someone crying and taste the pills on his tongue. His eyes go wide with terror. Even if he can feel the keys under his fingertips and see his own reflection in the black surface of the piano, for a moment he thinks that he’s dreaming. That he’s still Inside and everything that’s happened in the last year has been a figment of his imagination. Panic grows in his chest, claustrophobic and desperate, and his vision starts to blur. God, breathe. Breathe, breathe.

 _‘Chris!’_

“Jensen?” a voice says and Jensen jerks back to reality as someone touches his shoulder. “That’s enough. You can stop now.”

He pulls his hands quickly to his chest, abruptly cutting off the music. The air feels thick with his fear and he’s sure Richards can smell it, can tell how close he is to breaking. It’s still the same room though, same walls and floor with just him and Richards, and Minna watching him intrigued from on top of the piano.

“That was...” Richard laughs, a little uncertain. “Huh.” He squeezes Jensen’s shoulder. “You alright, Ackles?”

Jensen nods even if he knows Richards can feel him shaking. God, how did he ever think he could do this?

“This is why you weren’t allowed to play?” Richards asks quietly.

Jensen hesitates, then nods again. It’s as close to the truth as he can get.

Richards lets go of Jensen’s shoulder, standing silent behind him for a while before walking around to lean into the piano’s side. Jensen can feel the man’s gaze on him, heavy and penetrating, but he doesn’t dare look up, just sits with his head bowed, breathing, and waits for Richards to tell him he’s not fit for school and should quit now rather than later. There are plenty of kids out there, normal kids that could actually be someone if they only got the chance. If he gave them his spot at the school.

“Son, you need to learn to let go,” Richards suddenly says. “It’s just music.”

Jensen looks up at him startled and Richards gives him an almost embarrassed grin. “Listen to me,” he says, “‘just’ music. We both know there’s no such thing. But, Jensen,” he continues, his voice turning serious again, “there’s a difference between feeling the music and letting it completely devour you.”

Jensen bites his lip. “I...” he starts then stops, not sure what to say. “I can’t shut out the emotions,” he finally admits. “They are too strong.” He swallows, fully aware of how crazy he sounds but Richards only nods as if it makes perfect sense to him.

“I guess we’ll have to work on that then,” he says and smiles. “A little musical therapy thrown in the mix. It will be… interesting.”

Jensen stills. The stone that had lodged itself in his throat crumbles to dust, leaving him hoarse and choking on the sudden rush of oxygen. “I can stay?” he asks carefully. “You’re not going to… I can really stay?”

The man blinks, obviously taken aback, but then his face softens and he smiles, if a little sadly. “Jensen, I wouldn’t let you leave even if you wanted to.”

Jensen barks a loud laugh before quickly covering his mouth with his hand, breathing harshly through his nose. “Thank you,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. “You don’t know… Thank you.”

His breathing is loud in the silent room, sharp and erratic intakes of air whistling through his nostrils, his palm damp and sweaty where he presses it to his lips. He keeps his other hand on the piano, feeling its soothing humming vibrate against his fingertips. ‘Sshh, sshh,’ it says. ‘It’s all right. You’re here. You made it.’

Richards takes a step forward. Jensen can feel him hovering, unsure and worried, and then his hand lands on Jensen’s shoulder again, squeezing it hard. “Son, you have a gift,” he says quietly. “An amazing wonderful gift. Don’t turn it into a curse.”

Jensen nods jerkily, still not able to open his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages to choke out.

“Don’t be.”

Richards falls quiet but he doesn’t let go off Jensen’s shoulder and after a while it gets a little easier to breathe. Jensen lets his hand fall down on his lap. The palm is slick with spit and tears and he wipes it discreetly on the thigh of his jeans. He really wishes Chris were there.

“You know the school has a counselor you can talk to,” Richards suggests, sounding worried. “No shame in getting help.”

Jensen goes still. Then he slowly pulls away from Richards’ touch. “I’m all right,” he says stiffly.

Richards takes a step back to give Jensen the space he’s subtly asking for. “She’s not a doctor,” he says, seeming to catch Jensen’s thoughts. “Just someone to talk to.”

“I’m all right,” Jensen repeats, keeping his tone cool and polite even if he can feel his hackles rising. “I have friends. It’s okay.”

“Many students have trouble adjusting to the pressure of…” Richards tries but Jensen quickly cuts him off.

“No. Thank you for your concern but no. I can’t… No.” Jensen looks up, painfully aware that his face is still flushed red and probably streaked with tears. “Can I go?”

Richards opens his mouth then closes it again. He nods and Jensen stands up. His legs feel slightly wobbly. He gives the piano a last light stroke over the keys in thanks then gathers up his things and heads for the door.

“Jensen,” Richards says and Jensen stops, hand on the doorknob. He can practically hear the man’s thoughts, hovering in the air. ‘If you need to talk…’ and ‘You can always come to me.’

But what he says is, “I meant what I said. I think… I _really_ think you have a very unique gift. And I’d love to help you nurse it into something even more extraordinary. A gift like that… It’s very precious, Jensen. Very precious and very rare. I would feel honored if you let me teach you.”

Jensen stands silent, taking in the warmth in the voice. The sincerity. The total lack of apprehension. The _words_. His heart suddenly feels light, like a window has been flung open to let in the warm sun and the sweet summer breeze. He turns around and gives Richards a real smile, not even caring that it brightens the whole room.

“It really is a gift, isn’t it?” he says, amazed.

Richards blinks, startled by the brightness and Jensen’s sudden change of mood. “Yes. Undoubtedly.”

Jensen laughs. “A gift,” he repeats quietly to himself. “A gift that _I_ got.” He’s never really thought of it like that. That someone deemed him worthy enough to give him something so precious. He gives the bewildered man another blinding smile, feeling like he’d just been given the whole world on a silver platter. “Thank you. Tomorrow?”

Richards nods, eyes a little glazed over. “Tomorrow, yes. Have something ready,” he adds, trying for stern and failing entirely. “Romantic period post Beethoven. Work on those emotions!”

Jensen grins. “Will do!” He pushes the door open and walks down the hall, already trying out different pieces in his head. There’s a bounce in his step he hasn’t felt since back home with Jared and he can’t stop smiling.

‘A gift. Of course it’s a _gift_. Jensen, you _moron_ ,’ he thinks and then laughs out loud at his own stupidity. Maybe there is a God after all. Or maybe whoever – whatever – made him, gave him this to make up for everything else. It doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that he has it and it brought him here. He made it. And he just knows it’s only a matter of time before Jared shows up to join him. It’s going to be _awesome_!

A rain of butterflies appear in the turmoil of his cheerful stride. They follow him unnoticed for a while then flutter their way through an open door where they momentarily distract a nervous girl stroking the bow of her violin before unexplainably disappearing into thin air. Outside the last of the snow is melting in the brilliant sun. No one knows it yet but the following month will be the warmest and sunniest September New York has seen in over fifty years.

fin

**Author's Note:**

> I needed music that wasn't only monotonic, fitting his perception of his years Inside but also something Jensen wouldn't have heard of so I picked an Icelandic composer. Honestly, not a big fan of this man's piano works. But this piece fit its purpose so...
> 
> I really do love the Schubert piece though. I hope you do too.
> 
> I do know Pimp My Ride didn't actually start airing until 2 years after this takes place. It was just too good of a sentence to pass up. *g*


End file.
